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We Visit Valencia to See the Red Ink Running Through Her Veins When we enter the cave, Maria says, “We’ve always been such simple people.” And it’s true, glancing over countless etchings of spears in antelope, we've always been the animals I fear the most. It’s the middle of December and icicles frame the outside of the cave. There are eight of us inside, not including the tour guide, Johnny, a local college student underpaid to trek to the northern hollows three times a day. Johnny steps on a slug at the entrance of the cave, and he identifies its corpse as an Arion Lasitanicus. Maria and I stop behind the rest of the group and wait for Johnny to resume his guidance. He scrapes the remains of translucent juice from his rubber sole. As we turn the corner, we are greeted by more walls of red and black ink on beige limestone. Johnny tells us, “These paintings were most likely done to commemorate the ending of a tribal war.” I see my girlfriend, Maria, on the outskirt of the group, captivated by the image of a small boy, but refusing to look at the images of the dead antelopes. Even now, she is still a child covering her eyes from roadkill. Her retinas are avoiding the violence, but I know she is still curious about everyone who lives and dies on this surface. Her eyes scan over the images of her ancestors: First, the antelope. Then, the hunter. Watching her look at these images, I know she is sifting through her lineage because she carries these sketches in her chest. On the hike up to the cave, Maria started teaching me some Spanish. “In English,” she said, “The verb, sift, literally means, to take out the unwanted leaving only the pure remnants,” she put her hand on the guardrail on the path and stopped to inhale, “But in Spanish, it translates to examinar cuidadosamente, which can also be read literally as to examine carefully.” She stretched her arms and continued on the path, “I’ve always wanted to examine this place.. it holds an unknown part of me.” Now, I feel her eyes looking at me as I stare blankly at the red ink. I grab her hand and bring it up to my mouth for a kiss. On the inside of her middle finger, there is an outline that looks like this country; a birthmark that is a constant reminder of a past she never experienced. She sighs and continues looking at the horse, clunking its way over to the mountain painted in the distance. She turns her head, stares for a second, and points straight towards the most violent figures: two white men shooting bows and arrows at each other. Above the sketch, a pile of cave moss is seeping down the wall. She grabs a pebble from under her feet and starts writing something at the bottom of the wall. Dear Grandchild, the shaky handwriting reads: I’m sorry this war lives inside of us. As we leave the cave, I watch her rubbing her hands together, bringing blood back into her palms, taking the numbing out of her fingertips. Lily Connolly Learn more about the prehistoric paintings of the Pachmarhi Hills at The Bradshaw Foundation. Lily Connolly is a recent graduate of the University of Tampa's undergraduate creative writing program. She has been published in several journals, including The Ekphrastic Review and Bending Genres, and she won the FCHC poetry award in 2019. You can find more of her thoughts on Twitter @lilyconnolly26
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 the author's father, with Poussin The Foot-Washer Lost in the Scottish National Gallery, my father finds a place to rest, surrounded by Poussin’s Seven Sacraments. He sits with his back to us-- a bald crown, broad back and creased plaid shirt. He is caught up in a picture, out of himself. Eight months after his sudden passing, I summon the painting on a screen: men recline around a banquet table. Casual glances and gestures pull my eye toward a bearded man, and a woman caressing his right foot. She is caught between bottomless grief and the joy of release from pain. The gleam of lamp-light on copper-coloured bowls, the way shadows slide, suggests the radiance floats somewhere high above the woman’s head. I’m sure it is she who bewitched my father’s eye. Dad wasn’t a religious man, and words like penitence and sacrament weren’t in his vocabulary; but he knew the signs of regret, and the look of one who finds peace, if not in forgiveness, then in giving yourself over to just one thing. David Belcher David Belcher lives on the north coast of Wales in the UK, he is a member of several poetry forums and writes almost every day. His most recent work has appeared in Prole Magazine, Poetry Bus Magazine, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Ekphrastic Review and Right Hand Pointing. David writes and reads poetry because he enjoys it, and for no other reason. He is not a very complicated person.  Sacraments of Penance, by Nicolas Poussin (France) 1647 Red River This story was inspired by On the Banks of the Red River, by Marcel Dzama (Canada) contemporary. Click here to view. The leaves of the red maple are more vivid today. Occasionally ichor wells up on the leaves, and when it becomes too thick to bear the tree bends and the liquid falls and enters the sandy earth, where it hides from prying eyes. Blood sprinkles the riverbank like spring rain. A young man, a boy really, struggles to reload his rifle. His fingers are slippery with fear and viscera. Around him are the bodies of fellow men and enemies. The air cracks with gunshots and shrieks. A soldier who has been kind to the boy raises his own rifle and points its death-end at a descending creature, its body furred and winged, its eyes sharp and its teeth dark. The soldier twitches his trigger finger but he is too slow, and the bat-thing reaches him and that is that. The soldier falls to the ground and is no more. The creature turns to face the boy but the boy finds his wayward nerves and thunders his gun and the creature falls to the ground, a weeping kiss opening upon its chest. The sand of the riverbank drinks deep. Red rain falls unending. Why this battle? Why pantomime a spring day in autumn? The boy doesn’t know: he just finds himself in the moment. Eyes, both living and dead, stare glassily at the ongoing fracas. All faces have become streaked with gore and grief. The body piles have grown high, and they are troublesome to trudge over. A creature with the face of the boy’s father lunges at him, gibbering backwards poetry all the while. The boy runs the man through with his bayonet, and the man’s head comes off and flies up to join the bats and other denizens of the wild. Many heads are up there, and although the boy doesn’t recognize any others, he knows they belong to the past. That’s just how it is on the riverbank. The boy’s fingers have been greased now, and he clicks and shoots with efficiency. The maples on the bank and the carp in the water are feasting. A head comes at him and he fires at it and it dissolves into gunpowder haze. This happens again and again. Time passes. The boy gets older. Spots and moles appear on his person. His vision blurs. He can’t feel anything but the wooden weight of his gun. Eventually, things begin to peter out. The creatures move less quickly. The soldiers die more slowly. The boy who then became a man and who is now an elder can no longer lift his arms. He tries to look for the face of his father but his vision fails him. All that is, is red mist. Everything, eventually, comes to a stop. The strings are cut. Lighting is fixed. The old man is a standing corpse, his veins full of suspended blood. The only moving objects are the red maples, as their leaves let loose spent life onto yearning ground. Carmen Peters Carmen Peters (she/they) is a writer and student living in Portland, Oregon. As a lover of horror and speculative fiction they aren't afraid to dive into the deep end, and as a sapphic trans woman she strives to express the magic of queerness. In their spare time they enjoy tarot, exploring strange nooks and crannies, and recalling nightmare fuel from her childhood. Their latest fiction can be read in Black Cat Magazine and in the upcoming Prismatic Dreams anthology from All Worlds Wayfarer. She can be found on Instagram @Carmen_Dreams_Ghosts.  Join Meg Pokrass and Lorette C. Luzajic for an intensive microfiction workshop on Messy Love.
We will use some spectacular, strange, and sad stories from art history to inspire our own. Click here or on image above for more information and to sign up. “The online ekphrastic microfiction workshop I attended with Lorette Luzajic and Meg Pokrass was outstanding! The four day asynchronous workshop was a highly productive creative whirl of activity, where participants shared and generously commented on each others' work, in response to carefully selected artworks and fabulously inventive prompts. Both Lorette and Meg gave extremely insightful feedback and constructive comments on every single piece of work submitted. I was blown away, in fact, by how detailed their comments were; it was wonderful to have a dual tutor perspective on my writing. I'm new to writing micro and flash fiction and in addition to commenting on my work, the tutors generously offered advice on where to submit work and tips on writing in the genre. The supporting course materials were excellent and I have referred back to them several times, following the course. Although the participants and tutors did not meet face-to-face, there was a warm, welcoming atmosphere within the group and it was great to meet other microfiction writers and to feel part of a writing community. I cannot recommend Lorette and Meg's courses highly enough - they are a tutor dream team!” Jane Salmons, author of The Quiet Spy The Duc de Berry’s Hours after Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, by Limbourg Brothers (France), c.1412-1416 The calendar in the Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry shows the year. For time extends beyond the day’s hours, to the play of holiday and season. There is blue and red and green and gold on Earth, in cloth, in cup and plate, in January’s gifts. The sky’s in blue and gold. The duke is too. In February, there is snow. The sky’s in Pisces and Aquarius. A man is chopping wood. The sheep are in their pen. Come March, there’s plowing. On the castle keep, a dragon perches. Folk are at the work of tending to the vines. And then come April, the woods are in leaf. A gay company stands in the meadow: gold, magenta, blue. In May, these folk are mounted. They’ve arrived at the Hôtel de Nesle with its blue roof. The sky of June’s in Gemini and Cancer – they’re making hay. And in July, the sheep are in the fold to be shorn. August is a time for falconry, as in the field go scythe and wagon working. Come September, we harvest by Saumur or eat a grape. October’s sowing. In November, swine obey the swineherd under Scorpio. Then, come December, with a pack of hounds, we’ll see a wild boar run to ground. The year has played out in the Book of Hours and brought us back to Christmas. Off beyond the trees stands Vincennes. People do their work. The rich perform the task of gentleness, afoot or mounted in their blue and gold, as those they rule work in the fields. The air above maps out the zodiac. Another year, another harvest. And the sky is clear. John Claiborne Isbell Since 2016, various MSS of John’s have placed as finalist or semifinalist for The Washington Prize (three times), The Brittingham & Felix Pollak Prizes (twice), the Elixir Press 19th Annual Poetry Award, The Gival Press Poetry Award, the 2020 Able Muse Book Award (twice) and the 2020 and 2021 Richard Snyder Publication Prizes. John published his first book of poetry, Allegro, in 2018, and has published in Poetry Durham, threecandles.org, the Jewish Post & Opinion, Snakeskin, The HyperTexts, and The Ekphrastic Review. He has published books with Oxford and with Cambridge University Press and appeared in Who’s Who in the World. He also once represented France in the European Ultimate Frisbee Championships. He retired this summer from The University of Texas – Rio Grande Valley, where he taught French and German and coached men’s and women’s ultimate. His wife continues to teach languages there.  And Then We Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur, by Leonora Carrington (Mexico, b. England) 1953. Leonora Carrington’s And Then We Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur i. There were a cow-headed minotaura a ghost dancing toward us. The green moth-flower unfurling its leaf. Magic realism and alchemy. You and your pots of jam boxes of black tea. Pomegranate fruit. There’s no buttery, no Gothic hall, no debutante balls. ii. Crystal orbs that pull at the tablecloth gateway to the chthonic dreams. Past your house in Mexico City, the melons stuffed with larks past crushed sweet almonds, past the jacaranda you planted where surrealist artists in exile. iii. These white Xoloitzcuintles. These dog voices. iv. This is the asylum glass door the asylum gurneys: all those restrained with straps all those locked wards all orange blossom waters and vomiting. They say: Tell me about yourself. You say: My body parts lie on the floor. Some say: Madness! You say: The war. v. There to the left, is a kitchen, there the horned goddess. Her small hands, her cloven hooves. You want vermillion, earth colours. Ilona Martonfi This poem was first published by Lantern Magazine. Ilona Martonfi is a poet, editor, literary curator, and activist. Her latest poetry collections are entitled Salt Bride (Inanna, 2019) and The Tempest (Inanna, 2022). Writes in seven chapbooks, journals across North America and abroad. Curator of the Argo Bookshop Reading Series. Recipient of the Quebec Writers’ Federation 2010 Community Award. To follow her work, please visit her Facebook page.  Nu Couche, by Amedeo Modigliani (Italy) 1917-1918 Modi's Hands Gooseflesh prickles my skin. I shiver. It’s brutally cold lying nude while he paints. The only warmth comes from a small brazier of coal he puts by his easel to keep his oils from freezing. He opens the window a bit because the room fills with choking fumes. When he paints, the creative fire burning within warms him. His black eyes glitter with inspiration as his cold-chapped hands hold brushes loaded with red, gray, white, yellow. Those hands never cease daubing, smearing, spreading colour as he recreates me on canvas. Hands that bring the bottle to his lips time after time as he studies what he’s painted. Those eyes that are hard, determined and see nothing but his vision. "I have to use the pot," I say to him. He growls his consent. I step behind the screen, relieve myself in the chamber pot there. He’s tearing off a piece of baguette when I emerge. The wine bottle was full when we began; it’s empty now, not three hours later. "Bring me another bottle, Jeanne." I try to caution him. We never begin before noon these days. He’s too sick from the wine to get out of bed earlier. "I’m hungry, Modi, let me have a bite." He thrusts the baguette at me. I swallow a bit of stale bread with a sip of the cheap wine. It burns all the way down, but warms my gut. I return to the chaise longue and twist my body into the pose he wants. I stare out the window as his hands and eyes again become the hard, mechanical tools of his genius. Northern light arcs across the rooftops as the day dwindles to dusk. Soon it will be too dark for him to paint. He looks at me then and changes. His dark eyes become soft, liquid pools of desire. His paint-stained hands relax. He unbuttons his shirt and trousers, tosses them on the wooden table where we eat. Naked now he bids me follow him to our bed. His gaze travels down my body as I walk toward him. We sink onto the stiff, uncovered mattress and pull a dirty blanket over our bodies. His eyes melt me. His hands stroke my skin. And he begins to create me again with those hands, those hands of his genius, hands of a Master. Evelyn Jackson Evelyn Jackson is retired, living in beautiful Livingston, MT. She writes in all genres, but has recently discovered flash fiction. Modigliani is her favourite painter. It's said that although he painted his lover, Jeanne Hubeterne, over twenty times, he never painted her in the nude. Or did he??  La Concha, Night Time, by Darío de Regoyos (Spain) 1906 La Concha, Night-Time I find you in the quiet, amid the nightbloom’s enpurpled hue Where soft tropic night permeates longing heart Our eyes meet and hold, simmering in darkened radiance The sea warmed air murmuring melodies to sweet future I find you in the slow, in midnight tinged with humid stillness In time’s smooth trickle, where twilight rests her head on my shoulder Where music of the shrouded world fades into focus from the gloom Between tree-shadow and lantern’s pull, we softly blend together I find you in the murk, where fallen sky mingles with surface Baylight synapses twinkling, shimmering on slow tides Where waning moon’s glow fights against dusk’s might Sweet nights burning together // whispered conversations of hope Landen Parkin This poem was first published in HAVIK--2019. Landen Parkin is a poet, teacher, and artist living in St. Paul, Minnesota. His work has been published in multiple sources including Eclectica Magazine and Sheila-Na-Gig Magazine. He enjoys reading, writing, sleeping, and is the proud father of several plants that he has managed to keep alive for several months so far.  The Ghosts That Haunt Me Now, by Lorette C. Luzajic (Canada) 2019 If Only... The ghosts that have her now as haunt perhaps are of her will and want arising as invented dance to chimes that tolled the choice and chance of moments now that might have been in days that will not come again and nights to which she can't return where so much wiser she might yearn to strengthen roots in troubled earth that was the nurture of her birth and youth as much as it could be in circumstance she could not see until as shoot she rose to bloom and sensed the seed awaiting womb and saw where life must dare prevail against the odds that it will fail and thus embarked for points unknown so unaware that she would own the pain that rush to aging earns in trial that by error learns "if only...", as translucent trace, remains forever ghost to face. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment... Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart  This week’s Throwback Thursday highlights the possibility of hope in darkness. Outside my window at dawn, it is late spring, birds are singing, and new, green life is all around. These select pieces of writing are like that. They begin with a touch of thoughtful melancholy and surprise us by giving us wings to fly away. Espagnole: Harmonie en Blue, 1923, by Barbara Crooker Lovely phrasing throughout this piece, such as: “Snippets come to me in birdsong, in gesture, in the dark wing of a stranger’s hair.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/espagnole-harmonie-en-blue-1923-by-barbara-crooker ** Stevia, by Lorette C. Luzajic I love the texture of this flash fiction piece. “There is a gold beacon, a seven tonne angel, high above the maze and urgency of city traffic.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/stevia-by-lorette-c-luzajic ** Leonard Leaving, by Tricia Marcella Cimera Such a gentle rhythm to this gem of a poem inspired by an album cover. https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/leonard-leaving-by-tricia-marcella-cimera ** Bird Call, by Monica Kaiser I had to reread this poem for the lift it gave me. “…they were lit by the sunrise—a spray of sparks sowing the soil.” https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/bird-call-by-monica-kaiser  wee Marjorie Next month, there will be seven years worth of writing at The Ekphrastic Review. With daily or more posts of poetry, fiction, and prose for most of that history, we have a wealth of talent to show off. We encourage readers to explore our archives by month and year in the sidebar. Click on a random selection and read through our history. Our occasional Throwback Thursday feature highlights writing from our past, chosen on purpose or chosen randomly. We are grateful that moving forward, Marjorie Robertson wants to share some favourites with us on a regular basis, monthly. With her help, you'll get the chance to discover past contributors, work you missed, or responses to older ekphrastic challenges. Would you like to be a guest editor for a Throwback Thursday? Pick 10 or so favourite or random posts from the archives of The Ekphrastic Review. Use the format you see above: title, name of author, a sentence or two about your choice, or a pull quote line from the poem and story, and the link. Include a bio and if you wish, a note to readers about the Review, your relationship to the journal, ekphrastic writing in general, or any other relevant subject. Put THROWBACK THURSDAYS in the subject line and send to theekphrasticreview@gmail.com. Let's have some fun with this- along with your picks, send a vintage photo of yourself too! |
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June 2022
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